


leanbh liom, mo chroí

by Alois_Zirconia



Category: Andrew Hozier-Byrne (Musician)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst with a Happy Ending, Captivity, Cock & Ball Torture, Cunnilingus, Dimension Travel, Dubious Consent, Exhibitionism, F/M, Fae & Fairies, Feminization, Genital Piercing, Impregnation, Ireland, Light Angst, Master/Pet, Memory Loss, Nipple Piercings, Parent/Child Incest, Piercings, Praise Kink, Pseudo-Incest, Public Humiliation, Size Difference, Slavery, Stockholm Syndrome, Time Fuckery, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-28
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-12 16:22:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29762355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alois_Zirconia/pseuds/Alois_Zirconia
Summary: Though they were loath to say it, everyone here followed the unwritten rules of their surroundings. It was the smart thing to do — you kept your head down, and hoped you didn’t invoke the wrath of something bigger, badder, and older than you.The rules were simple: You leave stones in fields alone, you don’t go wandering at night, and youneverwalk through faerie rings.In Andrew’s defense, it had been an accident.—————You don’t have to know anything about Hozier to read this fic.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 6





	leanbh liom, mo chroí

**Author's Note:**

> There is a criminal shortage of Hozier fics. Reporting for duty.
> 
> That being said, this fic barely has anything to do with Hozier, shamefully enough. You don’t have to know anything about Hozier to read it – it’s more about the fae, really.
> 
> I managed to write this in a day and a half. The words just spilled out of me: it’s legit the easiest time I’ve had writing in recent memory, lmao.
> 
> Your classic kidnapping vis-à-vis Stockholm syndrome fairytale. Heed the tags!
> 
> Hover over / click on underlined text to see their translations. Remember: 'Show Creator's Style' has to be turned on for this to work! Credit to [La_Temperanza](https://archiveofourown.org/users/La_Temperanza) for the code :))
> 
> See I told you my Irish lessons would come in handy mom

‘A well-rounded young man,’ is what she’d called him. His mum was proud of him. Andrew was a good son, a good brother: kind and benevolent. Well-liked all throughout school, and by most people in general.

He was the type to release bugs outside, just for the sake of it. He would probably try and nurse a bee back to health. His garden was filled with squirrel feeders and birdbaths. A lovely garden it was, as well: Andrew filled it with flowers and kept it neat year-round.

Some would call him lonely. Perhaps that was why he talked to everything around him, without expecting anything in return. ‘Sorry,’ he reflexively said to the rose bush as he trimmed it. He spoke to the crows, too, feeding them scraps as well as little tidbits about his day. It came to him like second nature.

More observant folk would put the blame on his surroundings. The ground he walked on, the air he breathed: it all carried unwritten rules. Andrew’s mum didn’t raise a fool. He took the time to be kind and polite, and thus kept his head down.

This behavior wasn’t exclusive to him, of course. Though most people in the country were loath to admit it, they all followed the unspoken rules of their surroundings. ‘No, I don’t believe,’ they’d scoff, and then they’d turn right round and lock their windows.

Andrew wouldn’t call it superstition: rather, it was good sense. Don’t mess with the unknown, and the unknown won’t mess with you. Wise folk kept their heads down and followed the age-old rules:

Never walk the wood at night. Anything seen out there is best left unseen.

Leave stray stones in fields alone: better yet, pretend you never saw them. They’re none of your business. Don’t make them your problem.

Stay out of faerie rings. Once you step foot in one, you are no longer in any world you’d recognize.

Respect the lives around you. Be polite to the trees, the brook, and even the pebbles. It wouldn’t do to act up: who knows what they may deal in return.

As long as they followed the rules, nothing should befall them. Such was the way of things.

* * *

Warm, he was, despite the spring chill in the air. The sun stood high in the sky and shone bright white. As he walked the dirt path, strewn with raised tree roots, he simply enjoyed the liberty of it all. The crisp air filled his lungs whenever he asked it to; the ground was steady under his feet. He didn’t wish for more.

Still, he was awarded company: the crows were out. They flew after him, jumping from branch to branch. Andrew counted about seven of them. Jackdaws, he was pretty sure they were. Gorgeous things. They had a shiny, black coat and ghastly pale eyes. As he fed them, those eyes stared straight into his soul.

"Cág,” he’d stupidly made a habit of saying whenever he fed them. Now they chorused it upon the sight of him, of course: _caw, caw, caw_. This was to be his symphony for the day. The cawing of his crows, along with the wind rasping along the naked branches.

While he walked, he hummed a little melody. He couldn’t recall where he’d heard it. Maybe it was of his own invention; he would try to use it in a song.

Andrew hummed his tune, hands in his pockets, when he suddenly slipped on something under his shoe. He righted himself and turned around. There, on the dewy grass, was a crushed mushroom. On each side was another mushroom, and another… all in a big circle. _Oh_ , he thought, staring numbly. _That’s not good_.

He waited, perhaps for a monster to come out of the wood and eat him whole. No such monster came: no monster came at all. In fact, it was deathly quiet. The crows had gone. Even the wind had stopped.

Despite all of this, nothing seemed to be wrong. The sun was shining. His heart still beat in his chest. Andrew was forced to admit that his superstition had gotten out of hand if something as innocuous as a flattened mushroom stopped him in his tracks. He was fine. The evidence spoke for itself: nothing untoward had happened.

Slowly, he turned around, still waiting to be proven wrong. In his pockets, he fiddled with a pack of gum. Nothing occurred. Nature was as amiable as always. He hesitantly took a step forwards, and then another one after that. _Well_ , he thought.

The light turned off. At least, that was his immediate reaction: the light had gone, he assumed, before remembering the sun rarely employed fuses. Andrew stopped in his tracks and looked around. The wood around him was dark, as if in the dead of night. Moreover, it looked unfamiliar. He could swear this wasn’t the same wood he had previously been enjoying a stroll in. These trees appeared foreign to him.

 _Well_ , he thought again, now with more relish. It was his pride talking: he’d never enjoyed looking a fool. To see his suspicions proved right, even in as sinister a situation as this one, was ultimately satisfying.

Andrew gathered his wits around him. He was in a place unknown, most likely far from home; something told him this wasn’t going to be as easy as turning around and walking home. Patiently, he considered what to do. He wouldn’t want to get lost, but if his suspicions were indeed correct, standing around would afford him nothing but roots.

He’d walk, then. But where? Not forwards, surely: that had been what had started all of this. He turned to the direction he’d come from. Going backwards would bring him into the faerie ring, which was the source of all his problems. Andrew wouldn’t have expected faerie entrapment to contain so many logic puzzles. He had been enjoying a perfect spring walk before this. He’d rather go back to that, thank you.

So he did: Andrew took four steps back towards where the faerie ring had previously been, now gone, and was about to take his fifth when a voice interrupted him.

“Are you lost?” it said, and Andrew froze so suddenly he almost slipped all over again. “What?” he responded reflexively, before he realized he probably shouldn’t talk to whatever was out there.

It kindly repeated, “Are you lost, wanderer?” and a figure emerged from the wood. It was a woman, quite slight. Andrew estimated she’d come up to his elbow, just about. The stranger looked harmless, insidiously, and had short blonde hair.

He registered that he was keeping her waiting. “No,” Andrew answered her inanely, in truth very and obviously lost.

She seemed to notice this: she came closer and said, “No?” with her arms behind her back. Her voice sounded oddly muffled. “Are you a friend, then?”

“Yeah,” Andrew said, because that sounded good to him. Friend not foe, and all that. Something in his chest prickled – the sense god gave a goose, probably.

Accordingly, the novel woman smiled. “May I have your name, friend?”

His mum didn’t raise a fool. “You may call me,” Andrew corrected, and then frantically scrambled for a common name, “…John.” He then recognized that his real name _was_ John, and tried not to curse his father.

His ‘friend’ blinked placidly. “John,” she repeated, and beamed as if she was content with that.

“And your name?” Andrew asked, to be polite but also to even out the scales a bit.

“Aoife,” the girl replied easily. Every time Andrew set his gaze on her face, it would slide askew. He couldn’t pin down her appearance to save his life.

“Nice to meet you, Aoife,” Andrew greeted, and she nodded back. He was now faced with the mortifying quandary of admitting he _was_ , indeed, lost.

Thankfully, she spoke first. “Do you have somewhere to stay for the night?” she asked cordially and pointed behind her: “A home lies nearby.”

What else was there to do? Just to be safe, he took one last step towards where his home used to be. Nothing happened, except Aoife throwing him a strange glance. Andrew was forced to admit that he was very, very lost.

“That would be very nice,” he confessed pathetically, and tried to ignore how thirsty he was.

* * *

It was not a home. Or, rather, any person who called _this_ their home was no acquaintance of Andrew’s.

The castle – because it could be nothing but that – towered high above the forest, with thin spires so bright they appeared to be of ice. The entire castle looked cold and foreboding. Much like ice, Andrew supposed. And yet there was a delicate grace in the towers and turrets of the building, gossamer-thin and sharpened to a point.

It was so different to the wood, muted and dark with its earthy tones. However, when Andrew turned back the trees were no more. In their stead were trimmed hedges and polished pools, set in a sprawling garden. There had been no transition: Andrew was sure they had been walking through withered branches just a moment ago. But the wood was no more, and so he was forced to accept what his eyes were telling him.

Aoife led him to the entrance of the castle, grand double-doors that stretched meters above his head. When he turned to look at her, she too was no more. Andrew stood alone before the doors.

They opened; inside was a servant, smartly dressed, although Andrew couldn’t tell you what he was wearing. “Yes?” he said curtly, and Andrew reluctantly replied, “I’m looking for a place to stay.”

The servant adjusted his gloves and looked Andrew up and down, taking his time. Andrew tried not to feel piteously shabby.

“Yes,” the servant eventually murmured. “Come in.” He stepped back, and the doors instantly snapped open so violently Andrew startled. Mysteriously, there was no wind in their wake.

Andrew hesitantly stepped inside the entrance hall. The interior was as shiny as the outside of the castle. Every surface sparkled in the light. The floors were a polished… tile, Andrew would guess, though he could see no seam. It was like one giant ice rink. The walls were that same cloudy ice, and the colossal staircase had thin, spindly railings. Overall, the castle was a strange mix of monumental and delicate.

“May I take your coat?” the servant proposed, and Andrew hurriedly shrugged off his tweed coat and gently handed it over. It wasn’t cold in here, after all. In fact, it was perfectly temperate.

The servant clasped Andrew’s coat and smiled thinly. “Thank you,” he remarked, and Andrew realized what he’d just agreed to. It was too late to take it back, anyways: the servant announced, “Follow me,” and Andrew obediently did so.

The servant led him though hallways of what may have been ice, or glass, or mirrors, or still lakes. Andrew felt like his vision was going. Nothing sat right in front of his eyes, like it had a personal vendetta against his poor abused brain. He couldn’t make sense of it all.

Finally, he was led into a grand hall. This was all very stereotypical, he privately thought. With every fairytale he had read as a child, he apparently had been prepping for this. The chamber was shiny, of course, and decorated similarly to the other rooms. An exception was a large, white fur laid at the feet of a throne: and at the feet of a frightful woman.

She was imposingly tall, taller than him, and quite thin. Her skin was pale, almost as gaunt as the white dress she wore: it, too, sparkled in the light. Everything about her was uncaring. She was beautiful, and she instilled a terror in Andrew unlike anything he’d ever felt.

Her smile was chilling. “There he is!” she said, pleased. The throne was rigid and hard, but she lounged against it as if it were the most comfortable armchair in the world. She demanded: “Give me your name.”

Andrew focused, and said “John,” so nonchalantly that it sounded like the truth. Her eye twinkled. It took Andrew several moments to realize Aoife wasn’t here, and that he therefore could have come up with a new name – that he had gone with his real name, _again_.

He closed his eyes in regret. She had some of his name, now, and he wasn’t much inclined to find out what she could do with it.

“You will call me an Máthair,” she happily announced, and Andrew’s eyes flew open. “ _What?_ ” he let slip, and her face stilled.

“Is there something with your hearing?” she asked icily. “Do you not speak the language?”

“N– No, an Máthair,” he hastily excused. “I do. Tá brón orm.”

By degrees, her displeasure steadily melted away. “Good,” she whispered, so slight he could barely hear her across the hall. “Buachaill maith.”

Andrew just hoped his poor grasp of Irish wouldn’t be the death of him.

An Máthair turned to the servant and commanded him to show Andrew to his room. “The green set,” she then alarmingly said. “With…” She looked him over with a critical eye. “…Copper, I think.”

Andrew felt completely numb where he stood. _What?_ is all he managed to think, and then the servant was ushering him out of the room and up the stairs.

‘His’ room, allegedly, was surprisingly cozy. This isn’t to say it was a dream: it consisted entirely of that glassy material, of course. Andrew was surprised, though, to see a plush bed and warm furs. It almost looked inhabitable.

He walked over to a chair and wound off his scarf and hat. It was all he had left to take off, really. They had taken the coat right off his back. Andrew didn’t want to chance taking off his shoes: the floor was polished to so high a sheen he could see his reflection in it. It was unpleasant.

He curled his toes in his shoes. In case of an escape, he didn’t want to be slipping all over the place like Bambi on ice. Andrew sighed and thought, _I’ve really had enough of slipping for one day_.

Then a woman bustled in, holding a big wooden chest. She didn’t even knock, just slammed open the door and dropped the heavy chest on the floor. Andrew was surprised the floor didn’t crack.

“Do you need help?” the strong woman asked brusquely. _Yes, generally_ , Andrew was tempted to answer, but he had an inkling that wasn’t what she meant.

“I don’t… think so?” he settled on instead, and she rolled up her sleeves and said, “Well, I have to do your piercings anyways, so sit down. You should take off your clothes first.”

 _Piercings?_ Andrew thought frantically, and then, _Take off my clothes??_

“Hah,” he tried. “No… thank you.”

She grabbed his shoulder and pushed him down into the chair. “Okay,” she said, and opened the chest to reveal a set of needles. The glare of a light caught Andrew’s eye: the candle on the desk was now lit, flickering merrily.

“Hey, wait,” he protested, and the woman held his entire jaw in one big hand. With no effort whatsoever she forced his head to face forwards. “Hold still,” she recommended, “Or this will go somewhere other than your ear.”

Andrew wasn’t sure whether that was a threat or an unfortunate fact. Most unfortunate of all, he thought, was the fact that they were likely one and the same.

“Please,” he said in vain, because the woman firmly grasped his earlobe in one hand and held the needle over the flame with the other. “Be still,” she repeated, and then pushed it through like a knife through hot butter.

It didn’t actually hurt _that_ bad, Andrew realized. Still, he wanted to hurl. His eyes prickled a little bit. The woman neatly replaced the needle with a copper earring.

“That’s it?” he suggested hopefully, and the matron looked him straight in the eyes and turned his head to the side. Grabbing his other earlobe, she wiped the blood off on her apron.

Andrew closed his eyes for this one, then breathed out a sigh of relief when it was done. All in all, he should count himself lucky that all the fae had done with him is stick a couple needles in him. There were far worse fates than a pair of dangly earrings.

“Take off your pants,” the woman rumbled.

Andrew choked. “No,” he said, scrambling off the chair and into a corner. “ _No_.”

The matron sighed, walking to the doorway to call out for assistance. Andrew was aware that he looked like a yappy dog, cowering in the corner, but his only objective was keeping his pants on his body.

Into the room walked two more people, one as burly as the matron and the other a child. No, not a child, Andrew realized: just a person so slight and dainty they could be mistaken for one. They were blonde, like Aoife, with big clever eyes.

Likewise, the burly servant resembled the matron to a T. _Were these the two types of workers, here?_ Andrew wondered, before jumping backwards when the servants came for him. His back hit the wall soon after, and the two burly servants grabbed him with no trouble. Meanwhile, the slight one tugged at his belt, and this is where he really started freaking out.

“No!” he protested in a panic, doing his best to wriggle out of their grip. “No, fucking – Don’t!”

The matron muffled his yells with her hand, and then he was lifted onto the bed. It really was soft, he absently noticed, sinking into the plush covers. Andrew’s body was fighting for all it had, legs kicking and arms wrestling, but his mind felt far away. It was quieter here; calmer.

The slight person finally dragged his pants off, and even through the fog he just about died with the indignity of it. The burly servants held his body down, though, so there was nothing he could do about it. He was helpless.

At least the dainty servant was gracious about it. “She wants you pierced here,” they explained serenely, grabbing a larger needle. “So you have to.”

The way they phrased it rankled at Andrew: ‘ _You_ ,’ like the servants weren’t wrestling with his body to force this on him. “I think she can go–” he was spitting, but then the slight one brought the needle to his dick and it died in a whimper.

Nude and shivering on the lush bed, he was faced with a dilemma. Andrew chose defeat, because things didn’t seem to be going his way at all. Better to cling on for the ride and save his skin in the end.

 _Lord_ , he had the wherewithal to think, before she pierced the needle through his fragile foreskin. His body bucked instinctively with the pain, and the thin thread connecting his mind to his body finally snapped. He was free to float, now, removed from the pain and humiliation.

Absently, he felt them pierce his belly button, his nipple; it was all very far away from him now. Someone brought out a warm cloth and diligently wiped off the trails of blood on his skin. Then the slight one was back, straddled over him, gently slapping his cheek. “Come back,” she directed, staring intently into his eyes.

Andrew felt… light, like a cloud. Immaterial. He was sea foam, beyond grasping. And yet they held him, propping up his body to dress him in gauzy clothes. The fabric was green, sure enough. Sheer and wispy, it brushed over his sensitive skin like a breath of air. He wasn’t quite with it, still, and didn’t cotton on until he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror.

They had put him in _harem clothes_. Flimsy pieces of fabric, loosely connected by green mesh. He saw his newly acquired piercings: dark copper, on the pale plain of his stomach, on his nipple. He was glad he didn’t see the ones down below. It was enough to feel them throb, hot and angry. The matron picked up a pink-stained cloth and wiped away a small trail of blood.

Andrew turned his head, and his copper earrings caught the light as he moved. They were quite pretty, he could admit. In the mirror, the matron chuckled fondly. Her head was a bit taller than his, so Andrew could see her glance up and down his body appreciatively.

“You look great,” the frail person divulged in a whisper. “She’s going to love you.”

Love him she did, for a given meaning of the word – an Máthair beamed, clapping her hands. “Wonderful!” she even exclaimed. “Come closer, let me look at you.”

Andrew approached the formidable woman, his bare feet trailing over the cold floor. It was easier to regard her now that he felt half-gone, a ghost of himself. This absence let him trail his eyes over an Máthair’s face as she examined his body at her leisure. She felt oppressively _old_ , Andrew thought, like a great mountain that had been there before he was born and would stand long after he was gone. Her face was clear of wrinkles: he could just taste it in the air.

An Máthair parted a long slit in his gossamer pants, cradling his soft dick and balls in her hand. She turned it every which way, admiring the copper piercing in his foreskin. “Beautiful,” she murmured reverently. His skin crawled.

The eerie woman reached out with one long, spindly finger and gently pressed her fingertip to his pierced nipple. Reflexively jerking backwards, he hissed in pain. Thankfully an Máthair allowed it and moved on to his face. Her hand gripped his jaw carelessly, sharp nails digging into his cheeks. She examined his face, and Andrew thought she seemed pleased with what she saw.

“Buachaill maith,” she commented, then snapped her fingers and pointed to the floor. More accurately, to the big white fur Andrew had seen upon first entering. _Oh_ , he thought with a sinking feeling in his chest. It was for him. Obediently – because what other choice did he have, really? – he sunk down onto the fur, tucking his legs underneath him, sitting awkwardly.

An Máthair sighed and pushed his head down onto the thick fur, so he was laying down. Andrew went along, and she clapped twice, loudly. The servants shuffled in the background, beyond where Andrew could see. All he saw was the foot of the throne, and the hem of her dress. It seemed she was leaving him be, for the moment, so his body gradually unwound. Eventually, his body became one giant puddle, complacently laying on the fur.

The pelt was soft under him, and pleasantly warm. It had probably come from a polar bear, he thought. He couldn’t think of any other animal it could have belonged to. An Máthair was speaking above him, distantly, and no one was bothering him. His eyelids felt heavy.

* * *

He was awoken by a touch at his feet, and realized with horror he had fallen asleep before an Máthair’s throne. He really was a pet, he thought. Next he would eat from a dog bowl.

Turning his head towards the stray touch, he saw two tall figures standing in front of him. They looked similar to an Máthair and regarded him just as coolly. Andrew swallowed anxiously, and only then noticed that his throat was _parched_. His entire mouth felt clogged, as if filled with cotton buds, and he had a throbbing headache.

“Pretty,” the female stranger finally remarked. “Too thin.”

 _Rude_ , Andrew thought right back at her. _Too haughty by far_.

An Máthair, however, readily acquiesced with her verdict: she clapped her hands again, and the sharp sound felt like knives in Andrew’s head. He bent his head and tried not to cry. It was so vicious, he despaired, and suddenly realized he hadn’t drunk any water since he left his house an eternity ago.

He couldn’t tell how long he had been here, in this strange world. _Underhill_ , his mind suggested, but he was quick to ignore it. Thinking it, even in the privacy of his own head, would be too damning for his sanity.

Existence on this plane felt syrupy and stubborn, and time was just as wily. For all Andrew knew, he could have been here an hour or a day. Longer, he realized: he had fallen asleep.

A servant scuttled across the polished floor carrying a tray, and arrived before them with a curtsey. On the silver tray were homemade pastries, and meat pasties, along with a glass pitcher of water. All things his mother used to make, Andrew noted cautiously. His real mother, that was.

An Máthair reached out a bony hand and stroked his hair. “You hungry, sweet thing?” she said in a lilting voice. The answer was an obvious and undeniable **_yes_** , ferocious in its strength, but Andrew owed it to his mother to not act so naïvely as he had been acting. He knew full well that eating the fae’s food would indebt him to them, but he could see no other option. His head was pounding, splitting in half, and he was once again trapped.

“Ar mhaith leat deoch, buachaill?” an Máthair asked expectantly, sharper now. Andrew was sure his head would crack open, and that his blood would run out of his ears. Surely, he was dying. “Yes,” he gritted through the agony, panting with exertion. “Le do thoil.”

The two strangers clapped and cooed. “So polite,” one observed, and then an Máthair’s hand was on his jaw, the glass pitcher at his lips. The water was so _cool_ , as if recently melted from a glacier, and he whimpered pathetically. Blissfully, he gulped down all the water he could, letting the rest run down his chest. It was indignified, but so was he, and every drought of water soothed the pain until it was naught but a faint memory.

“Go raibh maith agat,” he panted, looking up at her. Those eyes, usually ever cold, were benevolent and loving. They warmed him like a roaring hearth. He had done something right.

“Bia?” she then asked, and Andrew thought, _what the hell_. He was already in too deep. “Sea, le do thoil, Máthair,” he babbled to gain her favor. If all he needed to do was drivel at her feet, his night here would be a breeze.

Her face stiffened and grew lean. Andrew was reminded, then, how frightful she truly was: her visage made his animal hindbrain cower, yapping _danger, danger!_ She leaned forward, seized his face and hissed, “ ** _An_** Máthair.”

“An Máthair,” he quickly corrected, trying not to crawl out of his skin. “Tá brón orm.”

An Máthair stared at him for an excruciatingly long time, before she eventually subsided and grabbed a pasty from the tray. “Open,” she said, and held it out in front of his mouth. Andrew was suddenly very conscious of the two strangers watching him. He was also _starving_ , and the smell of the pasty only made it worse. It smelled just like his mother’s pasties that she used to make when he was a child.

How long had he been here, that he was so weak? Andrew timidly opened his mouth and took a small bite. An Máthair held it steady for him, waiting for him to finish. Andrew felt very naked underneath the combined weight of their three gazes, and he might as well have been: the slit in his gauzy pants hang open, exposing him to their sight. He wasn’t sure how exposed he really was, down there; all he knew was that it felt very breezy.

He kept nibbling, and when he finished the pasty an Máthair picked up another from the tray. It wasn’t cold in the grand hall, yet he still shivered in his mesh attire. “Treasure,” the woman from before crooned, and walked up to pet him. Andrew froze mid-nibble as her hand stroked his shoulder blade. Instinctively, he hunched away from her touch. The woman didn’t care: her hand moved up to his neck, and caressed the sensitive skin there.

The pasty stuck in his throat. He had to struggle to swallow it. All the while, an Máthair was evaluating him impassively. Andrew shied away, just slightly, and an Máthair delicately returned the half-eaten pasty to the tray. His gaze followed it longingly, for he was still hungry. The woman suddenly leaned in and _licked_ a strip along his face. Horrified, he recoiled, but she grabbed him by the scruff.

“Shh, a stór,” she reassured as she simply dragged him closer to her. Andrew tried in vain to hold onto the thick fur, but it slid between his fingers. The three fae were all bigger than him, and stronger too. It was novel to him. A victim of his stature, Andrew usually loomed over everyone around him: now he was the smallest in the room. Surrounded by giants he felt about as brave as a barn mouse.

The other stranger was just watching him struggle in amusement. A clever hand pinched his newly pierced nipple, and Andrew cried out in pain, but the hand continued its ravaging: next was the slit in his trousers, easily parted. That cunning hand slipped in and firmly grabbed his balls, eliciting a swooping nausea in his gut. To his horror, he realized his dick was stirring. It prickled with pleasure, and he begged it wouldn’t harden in her grasp.

His legs tried to close, but he found they were powerless, all of a sudden. In fact, his entire body was drained of strength, and he was forced to sink to the ground as the woman had her way with his most delicate parts. His body shivered, tingling with sensation.

Carelessly, the woman squeezed his flaccid length, feeling the plushness of it in her hand. She cursorily flicked the piercing in his foreskin, and again his whole body bucked with the sharp sting of it. Andrew realized that if she tugged on his piercing he would scream.

As he lay there, writhing in torment, the three fae talked to each other. Concurrently, the woman would fondle him, practically kneading his dick like it was an udder to be milked. Pleasure simmered under Andrew’s skin, and he hated it. When his dick involuntarily filled out, he was resigned to the arousal this woman was wringing from his body.

As his length stiffened, the chatter petered out. Andrew opened his sore eyes, feeling tear tracks on his face. An Máthair stared frigidly down at him from her throne. “You want more?” she noted, like he was being greedy.

 _No_ , he shook his head, throat too tight to speak. The tear tracks dried itchy on his skin.

An Máthair motioned with her hand, and suddenly he was _burning_ from the inside out. He felt mad with need, like a beast in heat. Desperately, he wanted to rub off on something to relieve the pressure: even the floor would do. His skin was prickling, hot and numb, and he was so hard it hurt. Without thinking, he begged, “ _Please_ ,” anything to relieve this torture –

The woman’s hand was back on his cock, gripping it firmly, and he gasped for breath, bucking underneath her. His orgasm was like the sun on the horizon, searing heat, frightfully big. Her hand stripped the length of him once, twice, her hold tight as a vice, and all the muscles in his body seized at once as he came harder than he ever had before.

Every part of him was bathed in an ecstasy like the best of highs, and his stomach was sticky with his seed. Andrew made a noise in the back of his throat, and the unknown woman raised her hand to cover his mouth. No, not to cover: she wanted him to lick her clean. He did so numbly.

Andrew was exhausted, limbs heavy as lead, and as he took her fingers in his mouth, he heard a faint chuckle far away from him.

* * *

He woke up in his room, in that plush bed of his. It felt like heaven. His body, on the other hand, was sore as hell. His skin was sticky with his spend. Andrew was unsure whether to be grateful: at least no one had touched him against his will, this time.

The gardens outside his window were bright as always. _Shouldn’t it be night, by now?_ he pondered. It seemed impossible to him that he had only been here for a day – it was the next day, then. He must have slept through the night.

If this was his next day, he was free from his stay at the palace, he realized with some excitement. An Máthair would let him go home. Andrew painstakingly sat up in bed and tried to get up. The instant his feet touched the floor, the door flew open.

It was the matron again. She carried another wooden chest, this one pained with intricate flowers. The previous chest was nowhere to be seen, Andrew noticed. The matron set the chest down with a hearty thump, and levered him from his bed so he stood upright. “I have your clothes,” she elaborated.

The stout woman dressed him like she had before. Andrew was too downtrodden and sore to care that she saw him in this state. His garments were peach-colored, today, and they left him seeming nude at a glance. Most prevalent of all were his piercings, which could be seen clearly through the sheer mesh.

The matron sat him down and draped him in more jewelry: copper bracelets, dainty necklaces, and anklets with small bells that twinkled sweetly. She even affixed a what looked like a strange sort of harness to his chest. Thin chains ran over his skin, brushing his oversensitized nipples at times.

Then the woman put some of his hair up, and attached jingling jewelry there too. She ran a scented oil over his wrists and neck. “What’s the occasion?” Andrew asked, and in the mirror her eyes were guarded.

“Her highness is holding court,” the matron responded. “You are to be her centerpiece.”

* * *

Sure enough, he had only just kneeled on his pelt when the doors opened, a crowd flooding in. They were fae, he noted, all tall and gaunt like an Máthair. The fae were dressed in their finery, long cloaks and sparkly jewels. The sterile ballroom was filled with vibrant colors. Andrew caught a glimpse of someone covered in auburn furs; someone draped in precious silks; another in stiffly structured robes. The only thing they all had in common was that they looked gorgeous.

Andrew felt quite laughable next to them, in his gossamer nightgown, and curled closer to an Máthair’s legs. Her hand came down upon his head, a comforting weight.

At the toll of a bell, the fae gathered on tiered tribunes. Andrew blinked; he hadn’t seen any, but there they were, arranged in a large circle adjoining an Máthair’s throne. It was confirmed to him then that his owner must be the Queen, or the fae equivalent of it. Above him, she clapped twice, and introduced what seemed to be a topic of debate. Voices buzzed excitedly, some irately, and it never seemed to end.

One fae sitting close to them threw Andrew an interested glance. Her gaze dragged down the length of his body, lingering between his thighs. Andrew shrunk away, drawing up his leg to cover himself. The fae smiled fondly, still observing him leisurely.

An Máthair’s hand patted his head once more, and he eagerly leaned into it, as if to signal _I’m taken, go away_. The lady’s eyes flickered up to an Máthair: the two fae stared each other down.

Suddenly, an Máthair drew back the slit in her dress, exposing the place between her legs. She grabbed Andrew by the hair and pushed his head in between her thighs. “Please me,” she commanded, and he was petrified by chilling terror.

She took no note and continued petting his hair where it laid in her lap. Andrew was confronted with her womanhood: it looked just like a normal woman’s, but there was no smell. It simply smelled cold, like winter air.

His naked back prickled with what must have been the gazes of all in the fae court. His heart beat frantically in his chest, like it thought to leave it. “Buachaill,” an Máthair said boredly, and Andrew had no choice but to lean in and get to work.

It wasn’t unpleasant. Andrew had done this before, for other women, and he knew he was fairly skilled at him. It was the lack of reaction that unnerved him: an Máthair was silent above him, and he had no way of seeing her expression. The thought of calling her by that name in a situation such as this made him sick to his stomach.

The cold, sharp edge of the throne dug into his chest, and the harness chains along with it. Andrew leaned in further, to alleviate the pressure, putting all he had into eating her out. If he was going to do this in front of the whole fae court, God, and everyone, he might as well do it properly.

He ran his tongue along her folds, lapping wetly at her center, sucking at her clit. No matter how many tricks he pulled out, however, an Máthair remained impassive. All the while, he was painfully conscious of the fae watching him. Their scrutiny brushed over his skin like a physical touch.

He didn’t want to acknowledge it, but his own cock was stirring in his pants. They surely revealed all: could every fae in the room see his eagerness? His length practically dripped with it. Indeed, he imagined he could feel their leers between his legs. Andrew was in the middle of laying wet kisses when she took him by the scruff and pulled him off.

He caught himself on his hands, panting, face wet with her. An Máthair didn’t look as dire as he had feared: she seemed sympathetic to his plight. “Buachaill maith,” she commended, petting his hair. Andrew took this to mean that he was done, and crawled back to her feet under the eyes of the whole court.

Embarrassedly, he wiped his face with his arm, but it still dried sticky. He was aware of how his cock peeked out through the slit in his pants and twisted his hands in his lap to cover it. Briefly, he checked: the fae woman from before was still watching him. “Good job,” the woman praised warmly, loud for everyone to hear.

Andrew blushed, tipping his head down. The strands of his hair that hung free did a poor job covering his face. He’d had enough, he decided: as soon as court adjourned, he’d ask to leave. An Máthair’s nails combed through his hair and lulled him into relaxation.

* * *

“An Máthair,” he spoke when the last guest had left. The hall was eerily empty now; sure enough, the tribunes had mysteriously vanished. “Can I ask you something, please?”

An Máthair, still lounging on her throne, graciously turned her head to peer down at him. A tray of turkish delights had appeared for her to devour, one by one. She magnanimously waved her hand for him to speak.

Andrew wet his lips. “I wanted to thank you for your hospitality, an Máthair,” he ventured. “But I have to leave, now: I will be missed.”

An Máthair blinked, perplexed. She paused with a turkish delight in front of her lips. “Leave?”

Something in Andrew froze, like a deer in headlights. The shadows in the grand hall seemed to grow longer, deepening like the dusk.

An Máthair looked him in the eyes. “That wasn’t the deal we made, _John_.” As she spoke, Andrew felt something heavy, a chain-link, constrict around his throat. His name rang out in the chamber with great power and reverberated in his very bones.

Still, he weakly protested, “I asked to stay here for a night, an Máthair.” Every word wheezed through his rapidly narrowing throat.

An Máthair mutely shook her head, and gestured: Andrew was consumed by a vision, clear and vivid, where he saw his own body like a stranger. He was on the outside, looking in, and in horror he watched himself say, _‘I’m looking for a place to stay.’_

“I have fulfilled my end of the deal,” an Máthair explained in the present, chewing her confection. “You will stay.”

She said it certainly, like her word was final. Hopelessly, watching the last dregs of his hope run down the drain, Andrew realized that it was.

* * *

Against his will, he stayed several more days. He was unsure how many: he only hoped it hadn’t been a month already. Andrew woke, the servants clothed him, and then he lazed away the day laying on the rug before an Máthair’s feet. All his meals came straight from her hands, even the drink, and at the end of the day he would sleep in his room, beginning the cycle anew.

All he ever saw of the castle was the grand hall. Usually, they would have an audience of some sort, and it was on one of these visits that Andrew attained his most prized possession.

He’d been bored out of his mind, obviously. If he wasn’t bored, he was sleeping. Andrew tried his best to make the hours pass quickly by napping the time away, but on this occasion his body remained stubbornly awake. His mind ran in circles, like a dog chasing after its own tail. Against his better judgement, he quietly hummed out the melody that had been plaguing him for a few hours.

The conversation in the room hushed. “You sing?” exclaimed an Máthair, in what Andrew felt was an overreaction. It was a relatively simple melody.

“Yes?” Andrew replied hesitantly. “I’m a singer.”

An Máthair looked positively astounded. “Well, sing something,” she commanded.

“What do you want me to sing?” Andrew asked, glancing at their guests. He had been amazed to see a fae _child_ walk into the receiving chamber. The young fae, much like Aoife, was small and slight enough to be mistaken for a human child. It felt strange, suddenly, to be bigger than the fae. He had hunched over to appear smaller, then, but now he straightened up warily: the fae child looked ready to burst with excitement.

“The Humours of Whiskey!” the youth requested eagerly.

Andrew accommodated, and sang the tune from beginning to end. The fae child loved it. He risked a glance to his owner: an Máthair was eyeing him like a prize hog. “I have other songs I can sing,” he risked saying, “But they sound better with a guitar.”

“A guitar?” she repeated thoughtfully.

And so, that night he returned to his room to find a gorgeous acoustic guitar on his bed. He had played it constantly ever since, even at court. Months passed like this. An Máthair encouraged it, kindly, and never commented when his fingers stuttered on chords. All his free time was giving him time to write, and he composed several songs during his stay at the castle.

At first he wrote about fantastical things, like battles and beasts and tragedies, but eventually he ran out of tall tales to tell. He returned, then, to his usual subjects: the warmth of a home, the comfort of a hand to hold. It was in the middle of one of these songs that he realized he had had all those things himself, once upon a time.

“Cad atá mícheart, a mhuirnín?” his owner asked, pulling back the pasty at his mouth. Andrew ate pasties, mostly. Somehow he never grew tired of them, and they sweetly reminded him of his mother.

His mother! He had forgotten about her. He had forgotten about everyone in his life. Didn’t he have friends and family? A lover, even? Andrew wracked his mind but couldn’t recall a thing. All he remembered was these pasties tasted like the ones his mother made: which must mean he had a mother, surely.

“They’re missing me,” he comprehended, and he wasn’t certain until he had said it out loud. “My family’s missing me.” The truth of it rang in his bones.

An Máthair’s face grew grave, but she simply leaned back on her throne. “Well then,” she said shortly, “They’ll be missing you for a long time.”

“Would you please let me leave, an Máthair?” he implored of her, looking deep into her cold eyes. She was a good owner, but he no longer wanted to be owned.

“No,” she responded with finality. “You wished to stay. I can’t believe you would want to leave your mother,” she asserted tearfully, and surprisingly Andrew saw genuine emotion in her eyes. “I’ve fed you and housed you and clothed you, and this is what I get?”

Andrew almost felt bad that he was upsetting her so, when she had done nothing wrong, and they had been enjoying a pleasant dinner. Then he once again remembered his mother. “Is there nothing I can do to repay my debt?” he tried one last time.

Behind her dire mask swirled a complicated emotion. “No. Go to your room.”

* * *

The fae were talking in those strange, muffled voices of theirs. The way they spoke hurt his brain. Sometimes it sounded like they were speaking in tongues, and other times he heard nothing at all. He never understood what was coming out of their mouths, and yet a few seconds later the knowledge would settle in his head.

It reminded him of zoning out as someone asked him a question. ‘What?’ he’d ask, clueless, while his brain rewound the tape and magically provided what they had said. It was like it had been recording in the background, even though he himself wasn’t listening.

Andrew didn’t care what they were saying. He plucked at his guitar, and tried to think of a way to leave, as he did every day now. He was plagued by a curious affliction, where the memory of his mother seemed to slip the moment he loosened his vice grip. To remedy this, he filled his thoughts with her always: her smile, her embrace, her floral perfume. The food she cooked and her hand on his arm.

An Máthair’s hand was combing through his hair, but she was distracted, conversing with some fae. To Andrew’s great surprise, another fae used this opportunity to approach him. The fae had long, dark hair and was wearing a gold dress. Her eyes looked all-knowing.

“Are you her son?” the fae asked him, and Andrew hesitated. Safely, there was only one answer he could give: “Yes, ma’am.”

Her lips pulled into a smile. “Good,” she professed honestly. “It was awful to see her grieving for so long.”

Andrew blinked. He almost heard the sound of it, like a key slotting into place.

The fae woman excused herself and walked off. Andrew reeled from what she had accidentally revealed. _Grieving?_ He carefully glanced at an Máthair, displacing her hand on his head. _And for a while, it seems_.

What could an Máthair possibly have to grieve? From what Andrew had seen, she seemed perfectly content. She treated him lovingly, every day, with nary a trace of grief. The closest thing to true emotion he had seen from her was on that fateful day he had asked to repay his debt.

Above him, an Máthair tugged on his necklace and gestured for him to sit on her lap. Hesitantly, he did so. Andrew was usually too big to sit on people’s laps, but her giant frame dwarfed him.

An Máthair pressed his head to her breast and then comfortingly petted his hair. Andrew hated to admit it, but it felt wonderful. “Buachaill,” she cooed. Andrew enjoyed her touch and tried not to think of his upcoming thirtieth birthday. An Máthair was likely so old it made his mere thirty years seem a pittance in comparison.

The key turned.

Andrew stilled, eyes widening. _Of course_. It all seemed so obvious now. Her wanting him to call her Máthair, calling him buachaill in return, the talk of her _grieving_ … The longing look she’d given him when he asked about repaying his debt.

He knew what he had to do.

* * *

To maximize his chances, Andrew chose a day where he was sure of her good mood. He happily let her hand-feed him, with a little extra groveling on his part, and only spoke when he was sat on her lap, head on her breast.

“An Máthair,” he murmured plaintively, looking up at her. “I’ve found a way to repay my debt.”

Her pleased expression quickly dropped. “Oh,” she replied coldly. “You still want to leave?”

“I love it here,” Andrew begun, “But I’ve found something that will please you far more than my presence. You won’t have need for me, afterwards.”

Her eyes were cold and distant. “You can’t give me what I want.”

Andrew slid off her lap and kneeled at her feet. “What if I gave you my firstborn?” he contended.

An Máthair’s visage stilled. In her eyes was a yearning so terrible it hurt just to look at. It was like the abyss, ready to swallow him whole. “Your firstborn,” she breathed.

Andrew was delighted by the genius of his plan. He wasn’t planning to have children at all. This just gave him a solid reason not to ever do so. He would give an Máthair this empty promise, and then return triumphantly to his home to meet his _real_ mother. The fae didn’t usually quibble with those who stayed out of their path: as long as he kept his stupid feet out of any faerie rings, he would have washed his hands of this affair forever.

An Máthair leaned back and spread her thighs. “Go ahead, then.”

Andrew froze in his tracks. “What?” he whispered, looking up at her. An Máthair stared back steadfastly. “Your firstborn,” she repeated, and beckoned for him to mount her.

 _You half-formed fool of a rat_ , his brain yelled at him. Nervously, he got to his feet. His escape was in sight: all he needed to do was… impregnate her. An Máthair gazed at him expectantly. “Here?” he weakly stalled, and surprisingly she rose from her throne. “Clever boy. I will conceive my son in my chamber.”

They went to her rooms, which were as cold and uninviting as one would expect. He had to applaud the cliché of it all. On the gargantuan bed, Andrew settled in between her legs. Her dress was hitched up over her legs: even then, his clothes were so sheer he was more exposed than her. An Máthair was calm. “I expect you know what to do?”

Andrew did. Slowly, he entered her, trying not to crumble under the pressure of it all. The size difference between them was readily apparent like this: her knees almost came up to his shoulders. He thrusted into her tight heat, trying to keep a satisfactory rhythm. She showed no reaction, just waited, observing him with her hands on her abdomen. Andrew didn’t meet her eyes. He kept his head down, thumbing at her clit in a last attempt to make this good for her.

“Buachaill maith,” she suddenly murmured, and he startled slightly. He tried to keep the same rhythm, his hips meeting hers in a steady clap. Her clit was soft under his thumb: he hoped she was aroused. Mostly, an Máthair just looked amused. Then she clenched around him, and he faltered. Her channel was tight and hot, and the slide of him inside of her ignited a roaring fire in his stomach.

Andrew’s entire body felt like it was winding up for a grand release. His arousal walked a knife’s edge of _overwhelming_ and _too much_. He tried to focus on lasting for her, but with every thrust the flame inside of him burned hotter, and his skin felt painfully sensitive. The head of his cock brushed against her cervix, and he buckled with the sensation of it. Still regarding him impartially, an Máthair reached up and scratched her nails through his hair, and Andrew jerked into her sharply and came.

It washed over him in waves, bathing his body in gratification. The muscles in his stomach clenched rhythmically as he pumped his spend inside of her heat. In the back of his throat, he whined a small sound. Haltingly, he slumped over her, his trembling arms barely supporting his weight. He felt limp, as if he’d had a harrowing massage.

“Good,” an Máthair praised, dragging his head to rest on her clothed breast. She stroked his hair, as she always did, and he slumped onto her entirely. At least he wasn’t crushing her; her chest rose easily under him with every breath, and he fell asleep to the dip and fall of it.

* * *

When Andrew woke in her white bed, he felt a little ashamed that he had fallen asleep on her like that. An Máthair was nowhere to be seen, but it occurred to him that that shouldn’t matter: he was free now, according to their deal. He could leave, and… meet his mom. Andrew concentrated on the thought, making sure he wouldn’t forget his objective.

Making his way downstairs, he found an Máthair sitting alone in the grand hall. It seemed an awfully sad scene, with no one beside her throne. The fae herself seemed content, though, with her hand cradling her stomach. Andrew walked up to an Máthair, his bare feet on the cold floor, and she inclined her head at him. “You’re free to go,” she remarked, gesturing to the massive double doors.

Yes, Andrew thought in delight, but he still needed guidance. In this realm his surroundings twisted around him, and it would be an awful waste for him to get lost and wander into another castle all over again.

“How will I find my way home?” he asked, and she looked up from her stomach to send him a reproachful glance. “We never made a deal about that,” she rebuked. “Are you so eager to indebt yourself to me again?”

 _Was this to be it, then?_ Andrew thought. Freed from his shackles, only to be too stupid to find his way out. Every time he approached the light at the tunnel, it appeared to draw away further.

Just then, the most wondrous thing happened. A miracle, by all accounts. An Máthair must have caught the dejected hopelessness on his face and felt a stirring within herself. Perhaps, he thought, it was that little bit of human inside of her body.

Regardless of the reason, an Máthair deigned to offer her assistance: “Oh, a mhuirnín,” she pitied. “I will give you one gift, for free, in return for the treasure you’ve given me.”

With her long, bony hand, she pointed to the garden outside. “Humans cannot perceive this realm. Merely attempting it will split your mind, like an overripe fruit. It would be better, for you, to leave it unseen.”

At that, she stood from her throne and presented to him a long strip of blue ribbon. “Tie this before your eyes. It will serve you better than whatever your treacherous vision tells you.”

Andrew took the ribbon with great care, looking into her eyes. An Máthair, for her part, simply sat back down on her throne and continued her monitoring of her stomach. It was like she had forgotten he ever existed at all.

Warily, he exited through the doors until he once again stood before the castle’s entrance. The servant who had been here upon his arrival was nowhere to be seen. It was just him, the enormously tall doors, and the grandiose staircase.

He tied the ribbon over his eyes tightly, so it wouldn’t slip down. Then he reached out, with one cautious hand, and pushed open the heavy doors.

Andrew walked blindly down what he imagined was the gardens: there was tile under his feet, and the wind rustled his hair. He heard the sound of gravel crunching next to him and froze to listen to his assailant. However, when he stopped, the sound did as well. The ground shifted under his shoes. Was he walking on gravel or tile?

Tenaciously, he continued, gripped with fear as he made his way through the world without his sight to guide him. _Treacherous_ , she had called it. What if she had been lying? Was this all a plot to trap him here, in this realm? Andrew’s heart beat like a drum in his chest, and his breaths came faster.

He was about to tear the ribbon off of his face when he recalled his own words, which he had spoken to her earlier that very day. An Máthair had no use for him now: she had her unborn child, in his stead. Why would she keep him here? Why would she lie?

Andrew did his best to calm his breaths. They came shallow and rattled through his throat. He was clever, he reminded himself: he had found a way out of the Queen’s castle. Eventually, his panic abated, and he continued on his way.

The ground changed under his feet, with no clear transition. He first felt the slight give of dirt under his feet, and then he nearly brained himself tripping over a stick. It seemed he had made it to the wood again. Andrew let himself rejoice for a brief moment.

Then he heard rustling behind him, and jumped to. What went there? Was it a fae, come after him to keep him as their pet? Or was it an animal, looking to tear his flesh from his bones? He had no way of knowing. Andrew felt the bitter terror grip him again. It seemed all he did these days was cower in fear of beasts bigger and badder than him.

The rustling came again, followed by a… thumping? Then a caw, and his breath whooshed out of him in relief. It was a _bird_. A crow, by the sound of it. Despite himself, he perked up in hope. Could it be one of his jackdaws?

Feeling very foolish indeed, Andrew let out a single “Cág!” It rung out uncomfortably loud in the watchful forest. No answer came. Desperate for even the slightest hint of familiarity, he tried again: “Cág!”

There was a long silence. The fae would laugh to see him now, he thought, yelling into the empty wood. What a fool he was. He would have to make it through the trees alone.

Those wings flapped somewhere in front of him, and faintly he heard _Caw! Caw!_

It was like the heavens had parted: “Cág!” he immediately cried, and heard the familiar mimic once more. _Caw! Caw!_ one of his jackdaws crowed, in that same rhythm he used to hear every day.

Joyfully, Andrew stumbled forwards, and tripped on a few more branches. _Please lead me home,_ he thought. _Please, by the grace of whatever is out there. I want to go home. I want to see my mother, at least one last time_.

 _Caw! Caw!_ from his left, and he steered left: then he heard the flap of wings from his right, and hesitated for a long moment, but no caw came. He continued left.

The branches would whip his face, like the nails of a hag, and he kept falling over his own feet. The path was uneven under his feet, winding in the opposite direction of wherever the jackdaws led him. At times, he felt fingers, gripping at the back of his sweater and dragging him backwards, towards the castle. Something nipped at his heels.

Andrew stubbornly kept walking. He now understood why his mother crossed herself; it would have been a great relief, in that dark and vicious forest, to have someone walking at his side. All he had was himself, and the crowing of his jackdaws. He couldn’t tell what was up or down, only that this was some special hell crafted just for him. Where was he going? Who was watching him?

This must be what Orpheus felt like, he thought: blinded by heavy darkness, not knowing whether he was pursued. For all Andrew knew, she could be right behind him, breathing down his neck.

Or was he Eurydice? Stumbling, hopelessly lost, at the mercy of his captors? He felt the knobbly roots winding under his feet like snakes. His feet slipped and shifted with every step, as if the ground was roiling. Foolishly, his arms were stretched out in front of him – with his luck, he’d walk right into the embrace of an Máthair.

 _Caw! Caw!_ the jackdaws cried, and he faithfully followed. He only hoped they could see this world better than he. Everything around him seemed to hate him: the branches in his way were knee high, and he had to climb over them: the dirt turned to mud, which sucked his feet into the ground like quicksand: the wind held small raindrops, which lashed across his face like tiny needles piercing his skin. The ribbon grew wet and sodden. He would attribute it to the rain, to anyone who asked.

Andrew stumbled once more, this time critically, and hit the ground hard: asphalt, it was. Before he could stop the impulse, his hands clawed off the soaked blindfold, gouging scratches into his skin as he frantically tore it off of his face.

There in front of him stood Gallagher’s house. Its white camellias were in full bloom, the grass long and lush and heart-wrenchingly _green_. Andrew heard himself let out a sob, an animal noise so foreign it frightened him. Slowly, he stood, brushing off his jeans.

He knew where he was, now. Gallagher’s house was a fifteen-minute walk from his mother’s. Andrew remembered Ian Gallagher, the old kind man who had watched him play in the street as a lad. It all came back to him: his bike, the maple trees, the scrapes on his knees.

His feet easily took to the road that led down towards his childhood home. It felt habitual, like he’d walked it just yesterday. How long had it actually been? He felt like he had spent an eternity Underhill; it had to have been at least a year. A whole year, spent away, while the world spun on. Was his mom even here, still?

As he marched down the asphalt street, heads turned to him. Neighbors stared in shock at his disheveled appearance, or perhaps at the wild look in his eyes. Andrew imagined he looked a fright.

After a torturous walk, he came to his parents’ house and turned the corner. His eyes teared up just at the thought of what he could find: an empty garden, a worn-down house, empty of residents. He peeked past the green hedge.

There she was, watering her roses. She looked plump and old and lovely as always.

‘Mum,’ he tried to say, and nothing came out but a dry rasp.

She turned, all the same. “Andrew?” his mother uttered, tearfully. The watering can fell.

Her voice was wet, trembling, and his being was crushed with sorrow. Just that one word awakened something in him – _his name_ , the skies rejoiced, and his heart joined in. _His name!_ He felt alive for the first time he could remember.

His mother sobbed, holding her hand over her mouth. “Andrew,” she repeated, clogged, and rushed to embrace him. His newly reawakened corpse was stiff still, but he did his best to hug her back. _Mum_. He felt like a scarecrow, dirt and all, and he was sure he smelled like grave soil.

“It’s been three months,” she mourned in a choked whisper, and he saw the tears run down her face. In his chest was a sensation like blood rushing to fill numb limbs, a prickling static.

She stepped back, looking him from head to toe: his muddy shoes, his dusty clothes; the pitifully thin scarf snaked around his neck. “Where’s your coat?” his mum exclaimed, brushing off the twigs caught in his sweater. “You’ll catch a death of cold!”

Her hands came up to cradle his face, checking for scratches. The thin gashes on his face were inflamed and damp with blood. His mother tutted over him, turning his head to the side. She paused and cried, “Are those _earrings?_ ”

“Mum,” Andrew finally managed, and crumpled into her arms.

**Author's Note:**

>   * I kind of adore an Máthair as a villain, because she’s not necessarily full-on _evil_ , just selfish. She’s not human; she doesn’t _have_ empathy. It’s not within her nature. She forces Andrew to call her ‘an Máthair’ because in her mind, it’s better than just ‘Máthair’. ‘ _The_ mother’ is naturally ranked above just ‘mother’, right? She doesn’t have the human perspective to understand that ‘mother’ is a lot more emotionally charged.
>   * The more complicated phrases were google translate. I can only apologize for the inevitable butchering of the language.
>   * The continuity errors (like his shoes disappearing and reappearing at random) are intentional. The joys of the fae realm ;))
> 



End file.
